This is the first of three extracts from my novel Elvis Kidnapped that I will be posting over the next two weeks in advance of the book’s publication via Amazon kindle, hopefully around the beginning of next month.
It is September 1975 and Elvis has been hospitalised after a season of shows in Las Vegas that was curtailed due to ill health. He is convalescing at the Baptist Memorial Hospital in Memphis…

Elvis Presley bored easily. Like many others upon whom Dame Fortune had showered fame and riches, the mundane was anathema to contentment and Elvis needed a constant charge to keep him amused. It could be any of many things: music, movies, pretty girls, fast cars, motor bikes, funfairs, travel, practical jokes, vandalism, food, sport, drugs or – his current favourite – impulsive gestures of unexpected random generosity. Hospital was boring and Elvis, as soon as he was feeling better than he did in Vegas, wanted out.
        When he was first admitted to the hospital immediately after his return from Vegas, huge sheets of aluminium foil were affixed to the windows of his room to keep out the sunlight. This enabled Elvis to maintain his Dracula-like routine of sleeping during daylight hours and coming alive at night, and the hospital was quite willing to bend their rules for such a famous patient.
        The official word was that Elvis was under treatment for ‘exhaustion’, but the truth was far more serious. Elvis’ liver was malfunctioning due to a grossly enlarged colon and he was suffering regular and painful intestinal spasms. His constant use of ‘medication’ ­– powerful, numbing pain killers during periods when he was awake and sleeping pills when he chose to sleep – and a junk food diet had upset his metabolic system, causing his weight to fluctuate wildly and putting additional pressure on his heart.
        Elvis briefly considered an intestinal by-pass operation but ruled that out when it was explained to him that henceforth he would have to adhere to a strict, frugal diet. Girlfriend Linda Thompson visited his private ward regularly and the pair would watch afternoon game shows on television together, and tune in to the hospital’s internal TV system, so they could check out the action in the public wards. Ever a snoop, this eased Elvis’ boredom for a while. So, after he’d been bedridden for two days, did a surprise phone call from the man who was once the highest in the land.
“Yeah,” said Elvis when his bedside phone rang unexpectedly. The line was silent for a few seconds. Then a voice he didn’t recognise came on the line.
        “Is that Mr Elvis Presley?”
        “Yeah,” said Elvis curiously. All calls to his bedside were supposed to have been screened by the hospital switchboard. “Who’s that?”
        “This is Ron Zeigler, the secretary to Richard Nixon, the former President of the United States. One moment please.”
        The one and only time Elvis had met Nixon was at the White House in 1970. Earlier this year he had phoned him when Nixon was himself hospitalised. Now, it seemed, the ex-President was returning the courtesy. The hot line crackled.
        “Hello Elvis, it’s Richard Nixon here. I’m speaking from my home in California. I just wanted to call to say how sorry I was to hear that you were unwell, and that I hope most sincerely that you’ll be feeling much better soon.”
        Caught off his guard, Elvis was momentarily speechless. “Thank you sir... er, Mr President, sir,” was all he could mumble in reply.
        From the library of his San Clemente home, Richard Nixon tried to sound chatty. “What’s the problem, Elvis?” he asked.
        “Er, just fatigue sir,” replied Elvis. “I just been working too hard I guess. A bit of a stomach problem too, so the doctors tell me. But I’m feeling better every day sir. I should be outta’ here real soon.”
        “That’s good,” said Nixon. “Well just you look after yourself now. You’re an important man in this country, our country.”
        “Thank you sir.” Elvis felt deeply flattered. He admired the former President, any President, very much. Emboldened by Nixon’s bonhomie, he decided to share some thoughts on current affairs. “I think you did a fine job up there in the Capitol, Mr President, sir, and I want to say that you had my full support in that Watergate business I kept seeing on television. I know you’re an honest man, Mr President, sir, and you had our country’s best interests at heart. I think that those people who were trying to harm you were, er, unpatriotic citizens who didn’t deserve a President like you, sir, er Mr President.”
        Nixon coughed discretely. Elvis’ grasp of the Watergate situation was evidently untainted by political reality. He decided to bring the conversation to an end.
        “Thank you very much, Elvis. I am confident that my position in history is secure,” he said, sounding far more confident than he really felt. “I gotta go now... State business, you know. Bye and best wishes Elvis.”
        “Of course. Thank you for calling, sir.” Elvis hung up and a swell of pride surged through his huge body. Goddam it, the former President himself calling to wish him well. Wait till he told the boys about that.
        Later the same day Elvis took a similar call from Frank Sinatra who also wished him well but his buoyant mood didn’t last. After a few days in the hospital he was itching to get back to his toys at Graceland, so much so that the hospital staff had little choice but to discharge him earlier than they planned.
        Linda visited Elvis every day and there was a sack of get well cards waiting to be opened at the foot of his bed. But Elvis was still bored.



Back in 2009 Jim Lea, Slade’s multi-instrumentalist and chief songwriter, released an album of his own called Therapy which, in his own words, was ‘the product of a notoriously tricky journey into midlife and its incumbent crises’. If that sounds like a recipe for disaster, think again. Therapy was a thoughtful record, crafted with skill and imagination, a collection of 13 songs that only rarely echo the glam rock wham-bang of Slade. Painstaking recorded with immaculate attention to detail and a complement of strings, brass and woodwind, it would have exasperated Slade producer Chas Chandler, a firm believer in the in-and-out-as-fast-as-you-can style of recording.
Therapy was released on Jim’s own label, Jim Jam Records, which didn’t have access to decent distribution so it slipped by largely unnoticed except by a few Slade fans, though it’s sold consistently over the years through word of mouth. I don’t recall reading any reviews, and had Jim not told me about himself – and played me a few tracks in his car parked in the West End one lunchtime – I’d have been none the wiser. I was particularly taken with a song called ‘The Smile Of Elvis’ and though I wasn’t too keen on tracks that incorporated recitations, I warmed to the record as I listened to it while commuting. It was an album that could only have been made by someone who’d seen rock from the inside and now felt the need to comment as an outsider, and though I don’t think Jim intended it to be a concept work, there is a theme to the songs insofar as it does indeed reflect a journey into midlife, a bit deeper than most albums and certainly deeper than being all crazee now. This isn’t say it’s a moody trip – some of the songs rock out – but there’s a trace of maturity, of contemplation in the lyrics, that’s like an aged malt whisky.
I wasn’t aware until last week (when Jim told me) that Therapy has been re-released, along with three additional tracks. Its title is no out-of-thin-air whim for after Slade Jim enrolled in a psychotherapy college in London and trained as a therapist, though he has never practised. Throughout the Slade years he was alternately bemused, untouched and slightly exasperated by the impact of fame. While the other three members of the group seemed to enjoy being famous, Jim turned his back on unwelcome intrusions into his life, retreating to his home in Staffordshire to raise a family with his wife Louise, his childhood sweetheart. They are still married and still live in the same house.
Although Noddy Holder is widely assumed to be the cornerstone of Slade, the truth is that without Jim they’d have got nowhere. Noddy had – and probably still has, though we never get to hear it these days – a fantastic rock’n’roll voice, a cross between Little Richard, John Lennon and Rod Stewart, and he could come up with a nifty lyric when called upon to do so, but it was Jim’s innate skill in the creativity department that was the key element to the group’s success. Without him they’d have remained a covers band with no songs of their own, a damn fine bar band mind you, but still making a living belting out songs like ‘Born To Be Wild’ and ‘Reach Out, I’ll Be There’ in pubs around the Midlands, as they did for five years before ‘Get Down And Get With It’, another cover, reached the charts in 1971.
Jim played bass on stage and like all bassists in bands that became enormously successful – McCartney, Entwistle, Bruce, Jones – he came from a musical background. Born and raised in a pub where music was a source of laughter and merry-making, Jim played the violin from an early age, just like his grandfather, and it was soon discovered that he had a natural flair for music. Although he learned to sight read, he remains convinced that his musical skills are not something that came from dedicated practice – that’s not his style – but from something in his genes. He’s one of those slightly lopsided musical masterminds who can get a tune out of any instrument he turns his mind to, guitar, piano, strings, probably the bagpipes for all I know.
There is something else, too, in Jim’s make up. He is partially dyslexic. He doesn’t like to read books – he hasn’t even read my 1984 ‘official’ biography of Slade, which if I didn't know him as well as I do might have displeased me – and has trouble concentrating. There is a school of thought that believes dyslexia is a gift and not an affliction, and I’m inclined to agree. It might explain why Jim sailed through art classes a year ahead of his age group at college and looked set for a brilliant career in design until he answered an advert in the local paper placed by The N’Betweens, a Wolverhampton band that needed a new bass player. As I wrote in the liner notes to accompany a Slade hits CD in 2005, many tales are told of rock musicians finding employment through the quality of their equipment but the opposite was true with Jim. He brought his cheap bass to the audition in a bin liner and his amp was sub par too. Nevertheless, although he was just 16 – three years younger than Noddy, Dave and Don – his skills ensured he got the job over a bunch of hopefuls with Fender basses and Marshall amps. Gear means nothing to him – he wrote most of Slade’s hits on an old Spanish guitar that belonged to Louise.
Once Slade became popular, Jim hated dressing up in the glam rock outfits of the era. Neither was he impressed by the trappings of fame or the stars he came across – he had memorable fallings-out with Ray Davies and John Bonham – and found the challenge of making it far more satisfying than being successful. When the hits came off the production line with the regularity of 1-2-3, Jim felt it had become too easy so, unlike the others, he became frustrated, discontented, pondering on the emptiness of success. As Slade’s star lost its shine during the second half of the seventies, he was certainly up for a second trial of strength but like Noddy he knew when to call it a day, and now has no interest whatsoever in joining Dave Hill and Don Powell in their Slade II touring band.
Jim, of course, was half of Slade’s song writing partnership – perhaps the least well known half – so his royalties, alongside wise investments and disinclination towards self-indulgence, mean he has no need to exert himself. The PRS cheques for ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’ alone could feed a family of four for a lifetime. He still maintains the lowest of low profiles, believing that “a low profile led to an easier life”. Nevertheless, his contribution to Slade’s catalogue ought not to be underestimated. “For every new song I wrote for them, I also wrote some lyrics but I left it to Nod to finish them or rewrite them,” he says, adding that his role in the band went some way further than simply writing the melodies and playing bass. “After a few weeks with the band it became natural for me to do all the musical arranging for them,” he tells me. “It was never an imposition, more an enjoyable encumbrance.”

Finally, I should mention that Therapy comes with a second CD taken from the one and only solo gig Jim Lea has ever performed, at the Robin 2 R’n’B Club in Bilston in November 2002. Fronting a trio, singing and playing lead guitar as opposed to bass, Jim called his band Jim Jam and rocked out without mercy, probably as loud as Slade in their day and, believe me, Slade could be blisteringly loud. The set list includes covers, a handful of Slade hits and a couple of his own songs, one of them a tribute to Keith Moon called ‘Over The Moon’ which segues into ‘Substitute’, as good a cover of this Who masterpiece as I’ve ever heard. More importantly Jim shows off lead/rhythm guitar skills I hadn’t imagined existed, a touch of Hendrix on ‘Hey Joe’ and ‘Wild Thing’, a hint of jazz in the slippery chords of ‘Far Far Away’, a punk onslaught on ‘Pretty Vacant’ and an overall mastery of feedback whenever the mood takes him.
Jim also handles the introductions, anecdotes, self-effacing wit and a few dollops of homespun wisdom. “Nowadays bands take a year to make an album and tour for three weeks,” he says at one point. “In our day we had two weeks to make an album and toured for three years.”
          Far be it for me to say which method produces the best results.



For much of this year I have been working on an 80,000-word novel about Elvis Presley being kidnapped. This is a project that’s been floating around on my hard drive for ages, and only this summer did I find the time to give it the attention it deserved and finally complete it. Of course, it’s an ambitious, slightly far-fetched undertaking that might fly away in the lightness of its irrational caprice, but it’s kept me off the streets and been fun to write. Aside from the thriller aspect of Elvis being snatched, I’ve tried to imagine how Elvis would act in these circumstances and how he would relate to his kidnappers once the ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ kicks in, which it does.
I never saw Elvis perform but his music has thrilled me since I first heard it. Beginning with ‘Heartbreak Hotel’, it’s to blame for my life-long love of rock’n’roll music. Elvis’ life, the triumphs and the disasters, the magic and the missteps, has always fascinated me. As a boy of 12 I cut out photographs of Elvis from magazines and stuck them on my bedroom wall. I bought or was given 10 of the first twelve LP records he released (stopping after Blue Hawaii), four EPs, and about a dozen singles. I joined his UK Fan Club and at Christmas received a card from ‘Elvis and The Colonel’. In 1973, as Melody Maker’s US editor temporarily stationed in Los Angeles, I read Elvis: A Biography by Jerry Hopkins, the first serious account of his life, which prompted me to write to Colonel Tom Parker requesting an interview with Elvis. I never received a reply.
In 1977, a month before Elvis died there, I had my photo taken outside the gates of Graceland in Memphis. I actually had a ticket to see him at Nassau Coliseum on Long Island on the tour that was due to take place that Fall. In 1980, as the employee of RCA Records charged with handling PR for his estate, I stood on stage at an Elvis Fan Club convention in Leicester, made a speech and accepted an award on the company’s behalf. Reginald Bosanquet, unsober, was the guest speaker. Oddly, Colonel Parker died a few days before my own father, in January of 1997, and I remember reading obits at the nursing home where dad breathed his last. I’ve since read about 20 further books on Elvis, written a brief one myself (to accompany a cassette of his hits), and edited and/or been responsible for the publication of six more.
It’s my intention to publish Elvis Kidnapped privately, as an e-book, towards the end of this month, all assuming I can get clearances for a few lyrics that appear in the text, and between now and then I’ll post three extracts on Just Backdated. For starters, here’s the back cover blurb, as we call it in the trade.

ELVIS KIDNAPPED draws back the veil of secrecy on the most dramatic event in the life of Elvis Presley. In October of 1975 Elvis was abducted and spirited away to a cabin in the Kentucky mountains where he was made to sing for his supper. After a week in captivity a ransom was paid to ensure his release, a bizarre episode that was hushed up on orders from the White House.

An intriguing blend of fact and fiction, ELVIS KIDNAPPED is a psychological thriller that not only tells the dramatic tale of how Elvis was snatched but delves into the innermost thoughts of the King of Rock’n’Roll. How does Elvis react when he is treated like an ordinary person, told to sweep floors and chop wood? How does he interact with his kidnappers? Will his songs grant him his freedom? And how do those close to him, among them ex-wife Priscilla and manager Colonel Tom Parker, respond to the crisis?

“With all of his needs catered for by others, Elvis Presley was the very opposite of self-sufficient; simultaneously the neediest man that Priscilla would ever encounter yet at the same time in need of nothing. Elvis was a paradox, reared on a diet that had left him as helpless as a child when he wasn’t surrounded by his courtiers… whoever had kidnapped him, thought Priscilla, would soon realise what a handful he could be.”

ELVIS KIDNAPPED – Did it really happen? The only way to find out is to read the book.



In the past 24 hours Just Backdated has received its 400,000th hit and, coincidentally, this is my 600th post, all since I launched the blog at the beginning of 2014. As regular visitors will know, I’ve slowed down a bit this past year but, conversely, the frequency of hits has accelerated, so it’s taking less and less time to pile them on.
As ever almost all the most-visited posts relate to The Who, number one still the post about Keith being photographed with John and Paul Beatle in 1974, now on an unassailable 13,896 hits, more than twice the post at number two. Surprisingly, leaping in from nowhere, the current runner-up is the post about Who manager Kit Lambert’s palace in Venice that I wrote in February this year, and which has accumulated 5,409 hits in just over six months. Almost all my Who-related posts have exceeded 1,000 hits, most of them between 2 and 3,000, largely because they’ve been linked on The Who’s own Facebook page. As a result of this the average hits per post (666.66666 etc) is skewed, since the vast majority get far less while the heavy hitting Who posts send the average up.
Not surprisingly, nine out of the top ten posts are Who-related, the exception being the one about Robert Plant visiting Jimmy Page for the first time at his house in Pangbourne in 1968, an extract from Omnibus Press’ forthcoming Page biography that I posted in July and which was shared on Dave Lewis’ Tight But Loose Led Zep page. Other non-Who posts with 1,000 or more hits include a couple on Abba (shared by my Stockholm-based Abba expert pal Magnus Palm on his Abba-related website), and one each on Jimmy Page, The Beatles, Rory Gallagher, Deep Purple, Wilko Johnson, Little Feat, Marianne Faithfull, Jeff Beck and David Bowie.
It is also pleasing to note that my obituary of Graham ‘Swin’ Swinnerton, Slade’s tour manager, has clocked up 1,781 hits, more than all my other Slade posts put together, while posts on Peter Rudge (Who/Stones manager) and Chas Chandler (Hendrix/Slade manager) have also registered more than 1,000. This suggests that Just Backdated readers are as interested in those who manage rock careers as those who actually have them. Similarly, posts about Kit Lambert have exceeded 1,000 and last Friday’s post about Bobby Pridden, The Who’s sound engineer, is already on 1,200 and rising.
Bubbling under the 1,000 mark are posts on Ray Davies, George Harrison, Dennis Wilson, Rolling Stone photographer Baron Wollman and, curiously, the one about the book on the Bradford City FC fire in 1985, the only non-music post to attract much attention.
In August I noticed that I was getting a massive number of hits from Russia and to mark this did a post about the Russian rock book Back In the USSR by Artemy Troitsky that I commissioned and edited in 1986. No sooner did I do this than the hits from Russia stopped, virtually overnight. It was as if I had caught someone snooping and when they were found out did a hasty retreat; quite sinister. Nevertheless, they can’t erase the hits, so Russia takes the Bronze in the Page Views By Countries list after the US (170,151) and UK (89,093). Russia is at 19,465, almost all clocked up in July and August this year, and thereafter it’s Canada (13,911) and Germany (11,063) with the next five (France, Japan, Australia, Ukraine and the Netherlands) all in five figures.
        Once again, thanks to all who’ve visited Just Backdated. At the moment I’m a bit tied up on other projects to post with the regularity that I once did. I have vague plans to combine all my Who posts into a book of some kind, with new material that I’m working on as a sort of summary of my long relationship with them. I have two other books in the works, one a novel, the other a co-author job with an industry figure, and I’m also still editing books for Omnibus Press, among them a definitive account of The Monkees and a book on Prog Rock, with more to come next year including, I hope, books on The Damned, Slade and Steve Howe. Never a dull moment - and what an eclectic bunch.


BOBBY PRIDDEN - Here's To A Long And Happy Retirement

Keith, Bobby & CC, New York, 1971

It has been brought to my attention that Bobby Pridden, The Who’s long lasting, loyal and oh-so dependable soundman is to retire from roadwork on doctor’s orders. It’s a bit of a cliché to describe roadies as the ‘fifth (or sixth) member of the group’, as Neil Aspinall was so described with The Beatles and Ian Stewart with The Rolling Stones, but no one deserves this title more than Bobby as far as The Who are concerned. Like Nell and Stu, Bobby was no mere roadie, of course, and I understand he'll still be on call if needed in the studio.
Bobby’s first gig with The Who was on December 15, 1966, at the Locarno Ballroom at Streatham in South London, and since that night he has mixed the sound from the side of the stage at every Who concert everywhere, year after year, thousands of them. Barring the band, who can’t see themselves anyway, no one in the world has watched The Who perform more often than Bobby Pridden.
Uniquely amongst bands of their stature, The Who insisted that their mixing desk be placed not in the centre of the audience but at the side of the stage, on Pete’s side, so that their athletic guitarist could convey such instructions as he felt necessary to redeem any shortcomings in the quality of the sound; in other words, so that Pete might scream at Bobby if he couldn’t hear himself or his guitar didn’t sound right. No man alive has suffered more abuse from Pete than Bobby and then come back for more, and more, and more. Why? Because Bobby loves The Who more than any of us, probably more than Pete and John, but maybe not as much as Roger and Keith; Roger because he always felt (and still does) that they are his band and Keith because, well, The Who was all he had really.
In The Who Concert File, a book I was pleased to edit and to which I contributed, Bobby describes how his arrival in the Who camp was the result of his friendship with John ‘Wiggy’ Wolfe, another old school Who stalwart who worked for them as tour manager and then lighting designer. “I was going to get a job with The Easybeats and I met John ‘Wiggy’ Wolfe at the station,” he says. “He lived near me. He asked me what I was up to and I told him that I was looking for a gig. He just said, ‘Well, I’m going to the office. Are you interested in a job with The Who?’ So I said, ‘Sure.’ I arrived there and was introduced to several people and then Pete turned up. He said, ‘Ah, so I hear you’re going to be our new roadie’, and he started to poke his finger into my forehead. It was extraordinary.
        “Then one night I went out for a drink with John and Keith, and, according to John, I signed and sealed my employment with them because I bought them all a drink. They thought that was marvellous. They had just finished their second album, A Quick One. We rehearsed for the afternoon and that night they went on stage and I couldn’t believe it; I’d never seen anything like it in my life. I’d always been into music but I’d never seen anything with such energy as this before. Pete came onstage looking very hip. John was well dressed too but didn’t move a muscle all evening. Roger whirled microphones around and Keith’s sticks were going everywhere. At the end they just smashed everything to pieces. I was standing on the side of the stage and couldn’t believe what was going on. There was this pile of broken equipment all over the stage and I thought ‘Oh, my God’. I was in a state of shock. They walked off stage and Roger turned to me and said ‘Bobby, get it fixed for tomorrow!’”
        This baptism of fire was further established a couple of weeks later when, on December 30 at the Baths Hall in Cheam, Bobby had to pay for a new guitar out of his own pocket when Pete’s was stolen backstage. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Occasionally asked to sing backing vocals on stage in the early days as well as mend amps and guitars with a tool kit, glue and soldering iron, Bobby’s true value to The Who came when he was entrusted with ensuring that their amplification and on-stage sound was the best in the business. Elevated from mere roadie to sound engineer in 1969, he became a world expert on stage amplification, always at the cutting edge, and much sought after for his expertise.
As it says in the Concert File, “Unlike a whole legion of heavy metal bands who took their cue from their pioneering ‘bigger-louder-wall-of-Marshalls’ approach, The Who’s sound always had depth, clarity and musical muscle within the decibel output. The skills of sound-engineer Bob Pridden and a commitment to developing and investing in new technology meant The Who always sounded better than all other groups. Significantly, when most established groups were using Marshall amplifiers – which The Who had helped to develop – the band switched to a different system involving Hi-Watt, Sunn and WEM equipment.”
To this end Bobby – nicknamed Ben Pump by Ronnie Lane – designed and maintained a series of state-of-the-art PA systems for The Who, among them the one used at the 1970 Isle of Wight Festival which happened to be the biggest available in the UK at that time. It was always a matter of pride for Bobby that The Who sounded better than any other band on the circuit. To him, they were the best and therefore deserved the best equipment. This much was apparent when The Who followed The Faces at London's Oval Cricket Ground in September 1971. “The Faces played a good set,” Billy Nicholls told Faces biographer and Who archivist Andy Neill, “and I thought to myself, ‘This is going to be interesting’. Then the Who came on with their new sound system and it was like someone had notched it up. I remember Rod looking very stone faced because he could tell the difference. The sound, lights, everything was so much clearer and better.”
Nevertheless, to be the best and remain the best is not an easy berth. At Newcastle on November 5, 1973, five days into the UK Quadrophenia tour, Pete famously ran amok when the backing tapes of pre-recorded synthesiser music that enabled them to reproduce the new album as it sounded on record went out of sync. Pete exploded, dragging Bobby out from his mixing desk, smashing his guitar onto the stage and tearing down the backing tapes and equipment. As if this humiliation wasn’t enough, Bobby was also called upon to buy a replacement Gibson Les Paul out of his own pocket the following day. What a relief it must have been when The Who's bank balance enabled them to simply buy new gear instead of having to repair old.
I wasn’t at that Newcastle concert but I was at Madison Square Garden in New York on June 10, 1974, another less than satisfactory show. Again, I chronicled my thoughts in the Concert File book: “The crowd of 20,000 stamped and cheered for 15 minutes but the band did not return for an encore, largely because they were arguing with each other backstage about the concert’s shortcomings. Unjustly, the ever loyal Bob Pridden was the focus of their anger.
“There was a terrible atmosphere backstage… The Who were screaming at each other behind a locked dressing room door. Kit Lambert, who wasn’t often seen at Who concerts by 1974, had turned up unexpectedly, drunk as a lord and demanding to mix the on-stage PA in future, a ludicrous suggestion, and that didn’t help matters at all. Bobby ran out of the dressing room shouting that he was through with The Who, and I ran after him, taking him into another room and spending ages telling him not to quit, and of course he didn’t. He would never quit because he loved them so much. Poor Bob really caught it in the neck so many times. He was the real fifth member of The Who. They couldn’t do without him.”
After that series of Who concerts in New York, the next time I saw Bobbby was on Eric Clapton’s ‘comeback’ tour in 1974. He told me that doing the sound for Clapton was like a holiday compared with working for The Who. At other times when The Who weren’t working Bobby managed John’s studio at Stowe-on-the-Wold in Gloucestershire, staying for a while in a cottage on John’s estate. Closer to the bass player than the others, he was distraught at John’s death, numb with grief at his funeral.
I’ve bumped into Bobby many times over the years since those days, and we’ve always exchanged memories and laughs. He’s diplomatic too, never one to utter an indiscretion about his employers, no matter how harshly he may have been treated at one time or another. The fact is, the vast majority of Who shows went off without a hitch soundwise thanks to his presence, dancing at the desk as he adjusted the faders, a bopping elf as recognisable to fans as the opening blast of ‘I Can’t Explain’. His departure from the role he’s created will leave an enormous gap, not just at Petes side of the stage, but in the psyche of the band, especially that fellow who yelled at him so much. It really is the end of an era in the same way that the loss of Keith and John was. Bobby Pridden deserves the gratitude of every Who fan everywhere. The best you ever had.



And now for something completely different…

Every so often I read in the newspapers that far too many people in the UK drink more units of alcohol than those whose role it is to ensure we live healthy (but boring) lives believe we can safely drink. I often wonder what planet these people are from since from my experience most pubs on Friday nights host drinkers who’ll consume twice their entire weekly quota in a matter of hours.
Time was, however, when nobody cared. Indeed, some of those who enjoyed their beer once drank more than their weekly limit in less than an hour, so let’s travel back in time to June 1968 when a party of friends from my home town of Skipton decided to enter one of our number into the North of England Beer Drinking Championship, held that year at Bilton near Hull as part of the local annual carnival. Our hero – let’s call him Brian – was renowned for exceptional feats of drinking, his party trick making three pints of Tetley’s Bitter disappear in 20 seconds, though only if someone else paid for them. I forget now the details of how we heard about this event or even whether it was necessary to register Brian as an entrant prior to the day. But I do remember that about a dozen of us set off in three cars to the port on the Humber Estuary, confident that Brian could hold his own against all comers.
The Championship was decided on the basis of who could consume the most pints of Younger’s Tartan bitter (they were the sponsors; none of that ‘encouraging responsible drinking’ bollocks in those days) in one hour, specifically between four and five in the afternoon. There were about 15 entrants, all of whom sat opposite one another at trestle tables in the open air. The rules were quite simple: the (free) pints of beer were delivered to each competitor by impartial helpers who kept count of the number consumed; vomiting resulted in disqualification, as did spillage.
The Championship had attracted a colourful crowd. There were at least two local wrestlers dressed for the ring, a few rugby players in club colours and one guy who claimed to be a lumberjack from Canada, complete with red checked shirt, coonskin hat and axe, and most but not all the competitors were on the big side, as you would expect.
A key element of the event was betting. Spectators could place bets on who they thought might win, with odds calculated after the first 30 minutes on the basis of whoever was winning at that point got the shortest odds and whoever was trailing the longest. For this reason we encouraged Brian to take it fairly easy during the first half hour, to stay with the field and not try any of his fancy three-pints-in-20-seconds malarkey. We were confident of his ability, and felt that he would be able to reward us all by coming from behind and bucking the odds. Brian agreed this was a sensible strategy.
And so they were off, amidst much shouting and encouragement from a fair sized crowd. At first the pints were delivered and downed remarkably quickly by all the contestants, though the pace slackened off noticeably after the first three or four. At the half way mark Brian was on seven, as were about half a dozen others. Three were ahead, one guy on eight, another on ten and the third, the odds-on favourite now, on 12. All the rest were trailing at the five or six mark and would die away in the second half.
So it was that the odds on the favourite – a curiously skinny chap whose name was Lionel Tutt* – were 2-1, on the two trailing him 3-1, and those with seven pints inside them 4-1. It was at this point that we began to cheer on Brian very loudly and, without a doubt, he did us proud, stepping up his pace while all the rest fell away. Indeed, Brian was the only competitor who drank more in the second half hour than in the first but try as he might he couldn’t catch the leader Lionel who drank less and less but somehow maintained his lead as the clock ticked down towards the hour mark. At the finish Lionel was on 17 and Brian was on 16. I think two others were on 11 or 12, with the reminder of the field in single figures. Brian’s noble sprint towards the end won him many admirers, especially as at the close he was able to stand up and walk – albeit unsteadily – towards us, uttering the immortal words: “Sorry about that lads, let’s go back to the beer tent.”
The winner, meanwhile, was barely conscious, to all intents and purposes carried away by his supporters, unable to stand, let alone head for the beer tent. It was later disclosed that he’d been training on salted ham and dry biscuits for 24 hours before the event and hadn’t touched a drop in all that time. Our pal Brian, on the other hand, had quaffed at least a couple of pints with us in the beer tent before the competition even began. He was also ruing his tactics, suggesting that if we’d encouraged him to drink more in the first half he’d have lifted the trophy.
And so we retired to the beer tent where, to our amusement, a local TV crew had set up their camera and lights in the hope of interviewing the winner. Being as how this was not possible – Lionel really had collapsed in a heap – they opted instead to interview Brian, whom many thought was the moral winner anyway. We all crowded round, grinning inanely.
After establishing his name and where he and his supporters came from the girl from the TV news crew asked him whether he had ever drank so much before. “Oh yes,” he replied blearily. “On my 21st birthday I drank 21 pints, half a bottle of whiskey, half a bottle of vodka and drove home.” **

* If you Google the name Lionel Tutt you’ll find a report of the event from the Glasgow Herald dated June 10, 1968. I take issue with this report insofar as it states the runner-up in the ‘most pints in an hour’ discipline was four pints behind the winner. Brian was only one pint behind Lionel as I recall.

** This was a lie. I don't believe Brian even held a driving licence. Still, it was funny at the time, albeit grossly irresponsible of course.


WHO'S NEXT - Track By Track

Prompted by the occasion of the 45th Anniversary of Who’s Next I have been urged by those who run The Who’s Fan Page on Facebook to post the following track by track run down of the songs on the album from my book The Complete Guide to The Music of The Who, updated in 2004 with help from my pal and fellow Who Archivist Ed Hanel. This relates to the De Luxe edition, released in 2003, on which I’m credited as ‘Executive Producer’ because I played a part in selecting the bonus tracks, arranging the packaging and persuading Pete to write his liner notes. Most of what follows was written by me for the original 1995 edition of the book (Ed chipped in with info about the upgraded editions) and Who scholarship may have advanced in the succeeding 21 years, not least by Pete himself in his book Who I Am.

The original Who’s Next consisted of nine tracks. All songs by Townshend unless otherwise noted.

1. Baba O’Riley
Thirty seconds of a spiralling loop, played on a Lowrey organ and fed through a synthesizer, opens the album with one of its most memorable tracks. ‘Baba’, of course, is Meher Baba, Pete’s spiritual pal, and O’Riley, is Terry Riley, the electronic composer whose work A Rainbow In Curved Air inspired Pete’s use of looping synthesizer riffs. Piano, voice, drums, bass and eventually guitar join in but it’s the cut and thrust between Daltrey’s leonine roar and Pete’s tuneful pleading that gives the song its tension and best moments, though the free-form climax, a souped-up Irish jig featuring Dave Arbus (of the group East Of Eden) on violin and Keith playing as fast as he’s ever played, is quite mesmerising.
          “Teenage Wasteland”, the starting point for Pete’s imaginary generation in their search to find nirvana, became a timeless Who entity in Roger’s hands, and the downright disgust at the way things had turned out (post-Woodstock) was never better expressed in rock.
          Pete: “This was a number I wrote while I was doing these experiments with tapes on the synthesizer. Among my plans was to take a person out of the audience and feed information – height, weight, autobiographical details – about the person into the synthesizer. The synthesizer would then select notes from the pattern of that person. It would be like translating a person into music. On this particular track I programmed details about the life of Meher Baba and that provided the backing for the number.”
          The synthesizer track that dominates ‘Baba O’Riley’ is part of a longer synthesizer piece that Pete released privately on a Meher Baba tribute LP I Am in 1972. Further sections featured on his Psychoderelict solo LP in 1993.

2. Bargain
Most songs addressed to ‘you’ are sentimental love songs but the you Pete addressed in ‘Bargain’ is his avatar, Meher Baba. ‘Bargain’, which stands alongside any of the best tracks on Who’s Next, is about the search for personal identity amid a sea of conformity, with lyrics such as “I know I’m worth nothing without you” giving the Baba slant away, especially when sung by Pete in a keening counterpoint to Roger’s harsher lines.
          Although there’s a low-key synthesizer track in the background, ‘Bargain’ shows off The Who’s ensemble playing at its very best. Block chords abound, there’s a terrific guitar solo, bass lines pop and crackle and Keith’s drumming gives the song a rhythmic foundation that lifts The Who clean out of your speaker cabinets. A terrific live version of ‘Bargain’ can be found on Who’s Missing (see below).

3. Love Ain’t For Keeping
Seriously upfront acoustic guitars feature strongly throughout one of the slighter (and shortest) songs on Who’s Next, but the bouncy tempo, relatively simple compared with the album’s other songs, and understated synthesizer hold this together well, as Roger sings about the difficulty of sustaining relationships in the modern world. This track is sequenced to run almost directly into...

4. My Wife
John’s song of marital discontent gets many fans’ vote for the best he ever wrote for The Who and it provided the group with a terrific stage rocker, complete with the kind of block chords that Pete loved to play while spinning his arm windmill-style. Although this version is no slouch, John was dissatisfied with the sound and re-recorded it himself on his third solo album, Rigor Mortis Sets In (1973). On live versions, Pete would stretch out during the song’s solo and end, duelling with John to mesmerising effect. ‘My Wife’ is possibly the most ‘Who-like’ song John ever wrote, certainly the closest to Pete’s style of writing, and the lyrics, evidently about his first wife Alison, are generally hilarious. 

5. THE Song Is Over
Among the most gorgeous ballads Pete has ever written, ‘The Song Is Over’ again highlights the contrasting vocals of Roger and Pete, as well as some inspired synthesizer work, tasteful piano playing by Nicky Hopkins, and a sumptuous production. Because of its complexity, it was never played live. Doubtless intended as the climax to Lifehouse, it features as a coda the motif from ‘Pure And Easy’ (see Odds & Sods below), another key Lifehouse song that was inexplicably left off the album. The closing passages are enhanced by an almost subliminal top-of-the-scale synthesizer harmonic line that traces the melody with a marvellous undulating counterpoint.
          It is only by listening to this song, in conjunction with others like ‘Pure And Easy’, ‘Baba O’Riley’, ‘Bargain’, ‘Time Is Passing’ (which The Who never released) and ‘Behind Blue Eyes’ that the real potential of Lifehouse, at least from a purely musical point of view, can be truly appreciated. A rock opera, or at least a song cycle, based around material as strong as this would surely have been the rock masterpiece to end all rock masterpieces. When it failed to materialise in the way he envisaged, Pete’s disillusionment led to his first nervous breakdown and almost broke up The Who.

6. Getting In Tune
Using the time honoured tradition of tuning up before a show as an allegory for creating harmony between disparate societies, ‘Getting In Tune’ is another fearless rocker, perhaps not quite so breathtaking as others from the album, but certainly no slouch. Like ‘The Song Is Over’, this is a showcase for Roger at his absolute best.

7. Going Mobile
With its rolling, appropriately ‘mobile’ rhythm and absence of harsh chords,Going Mobile’ lacks the grandeur of many of the other tracks on Who’s Next, but it’s a witty and worthy contender nevertheless, a ‘travelogue’ sung by Pete about the joys of driving around gypsy-style in his newly acquired holiday home. Lines about ‘hippy gypsies’ seem particularly apt in the modern era of New Age travellers.
          Apart from its tricky little acoustic rhythm signature, it’s also notable for the guitar solo in which Pete wired his electric through a device similar to a wah-wah called an ‘envelope follower’, with the result that it sounds like he’s playing underwater.

8.  Behind Blue Eyes
Opening with one of the prettiest melodies Pete has ever written, ‘Behind Blue Eyes’ rightly became a Who classic almost immediately. Crystal clear acoustic guitar, Roger at his melodic best and a fluid bass line take the first verse, velvet three-part harmonies join in for the second, then, finally, in lurches Keith to give ‘Behind Blue Eyes’ its third and final dimension.
          The faster central passage, a plea to the creator for confidence and succour, contains the most moving lyrics on the whole album, before the song reverts back to its gentle opening lines at the close. The choir-like closing vocal harmony, drenched in reverb, is deliberately – and brilliantly – sequenced to contrast sharply with the shrill electronic synthesizer riff that heralds ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’.

9.  Won’t Get Fooled Again
If there is a key song on Who’s Next, it is this lengthy call to arms that became the traditional show closer at Who concerts from this point onwards. Based on a clattering synthesizer riff that locks the group into a tight, rhythmic performance, ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’ is classic mid-period Who at their very best, Pete’s block chords firmly in place, John swooping up and down his bass, Roger singing his heart out and Keith an almighty presence, albeit slightly more disciplined than usual in view of the song’s inflexible structure.
          With lyrics that address the futility of revolution when the conqueror is likely to become as corrupt as the conquered, the song inspired many a clenched fist, especially when Roger came careering in at the end of the lengthy instrumental passage, declaiming the ‘bosses’ and inciting the kind of scenes that left the Bastille in ruins. His scream before the final verse is one of the most volatile vocal eruptions ever recorded.
          Pete: “It’s really a bit of a weird song. The first verse sounds like a revolution song and the second like somebody getting tired of it. It’s an angry anti-establishment song. It’s anti people who are negative. A song against the revolution because the revolution is only a revolution and a revolution is not going to change anything at all in the long run, and a lot of people are going to get hurt.”
          Edited down from its original eight minutes and thirty seconds, ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’ as a single reached Number 9 in the UK charts and 10 in the US.

Remixed And Remastered CD version (1995)

This version kept the single disc format, adding the following bonus tracks:

This is the original version of ‘Pure And Easy’ recorded at the Record Plant, New York, on March 17-18, 1971. A later version was recorded at Olympic Studios, London, but not released until the Odds & Sods LP in 1974 (although, confusingly, John Entwistle recollected the recording stemmed from the preparatory sessions made at Mick Jagger’s mansion, Stargroves on the Rolling Stones Mobile).
          A key song from Lifehouse, ‘Pure And Easy’ is a beautiful Townshend composition that should have appeared on Who’s Next but was left off, probably because The Who weren’t 100% satisfied with the versions they’d recorded during the Lifehouse/Who’s Next sessions.  It is hard to find anything wrong with the version included here.
          ‘Pure And Easy’ is Pete’s re-write on the myth of the ‘Lost Chord’, a deeply felt song about the ultimate musical note, the loss of which symbolises mankind’s decaying relationship with the universe. It is a song of yearning, almost a tearful lament, albeit fashioned over Who-style torrents. The guitar solo builds to a tremendous climax, rather like Jimmy Page’s memorable solo in ‘Stairway To Heaven’.
          Pete thought very highly of ‘Pure And Easy’ when he wrote it - so much so that its chorus forms a coda to ‘The Song Is Over’ on Who’s Next, and he included it in demo form on his first solo album Who Came First.
          In the accompanying notes he wrote for Odds And Sods, the album on which this song first appeared in 1974, Pete wrote: “This you might know from my solo album. This is the group’s version. Not all of the group’s versions of my songs are as faithful to the original demo as this one, but as usual The ‘Oo make their terrible mark. Another track from the aborted Lifehouse story.  It’s strange, really, that this never appeared on Who’s Next, because in the context of stuff like ‘Song Is Over’, ‘Getting In Tune’ and ‘Baba O’Riley’ it explains more about the general concept behind the Lifehouse idea than any amount of rap. Not released because we wanted a single album at the time.”
          It’s remarkable to think that at this stage in his evolution as a songwriter (1971) Pete Townshend was able to discard material as strong as this.
          The Who performed ‘Pure And Easy’ on stage briefly during 1971, on stage at the Young Vic and occasionally thereafter.

A stage favourite of The Who’s from the 1964-66 era, this Marvin Gaye Motown classic was perhaps an unusual choice for revival for Lifehouse. Played at the Young Vic and in the concert act for the remainder of 1971, this version was recorded at the Record Plant, New York on March 16, 1971. Leslie West guested on lead guitar.

This was recorded live at The Young Vic on April 26, 1971, and first released as part of the 1994 30 Years of Maximum R&B box set. A studio version, recorded at Pete’s Eel Pie Studio in 1970 appeared on the Odds & Sods LP in 1974.
          A superb stage song, ‘Naked Eye’ was developed on stage as part of the improvisation during extended versions of ‘My Generation’ (see Live At Leeds) and, once fully formed, played at virtually every Who concert in the early Seventies. It took on enormous power as Pete and Roger shared verses that contained some of Pete’s most powerful lyrical imagery ever.
          Between oblique references to drugs and guns is a deep sense of frustration and failure, of not knowing where next to run to, yet at the same time realising that to stand still is suicidal, matters uppermost in Pete’s mind as he sought to justify his continued role in The Who and The Who’s continued existence. Meanwhile the band strains at the leash, while a strange nagging riff holds the song together. This is the riff that made its first appearance at concerts during 1969 when the band were jamming at the climax to their shows, and only later did Pete add lyrics to harness it into ‘Naked Eye’.
          Like ‘Pure And Easy’, ‘Naked Eye’ is an essential Who song, far more important than many found elsewhere in the catalogue.

Also recorded at the same Young Vic show as above.
          An overlong, rather heavy-handed rocker, ‘Water’ is another Lifehouse reject, this one mixing a rather lascivious hook line (‘water’ rhymes with ‘daughter’ throughout) into a song in which ‘water’ becomes an allegory for quenching spiritual thirst. Considering the role it played on stage, it seemed destined for inclusion on whatever album that would follow Tommy. Eventually Pete came up with several far better songs, and despite several stage comments at various shows and concerts during 1970/71 introducing it as a possible Who single, ‘Water’ was consigned to the scrap heap, only to resurface as the UK B-side of ‘5.15’in October 1973.

Another Lifehouse outtake, produced by The Who, and associate producer Glyn Johns, at Olympic Studios, London, April 12, 1971.  It was first released in 1974, with Roger’s re-recorded vocal, on Odds & Sods.
          ‘Too Much Of Anything’ is a rather pedestrian rock ballad, with Nicky Hopkins on piano, that deals with greed and its consequences, but the song meanders along indifferently without the punch of other Lifehouse tracks. The Who occasionally played it on stage in 1971 but soon dropped it.

This is a 1970 Eel Pie recording that was part of a planned EP project. Instead, it appeared as the B-side to the ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’ single in June 1971, credited as ‘Don’t Know Myself’. A Lifehouse reject which wasn’t quite up to the standard of the other songs Pete was writing in 1970, ‘I Don’t Know Even Know Myself’ blends a fierce verse and chorus with a strange, country and western style middle eight which features Keith tapping a wooden block. Often played live in 1970/71, but dropped when Who’s Next provided the band with better stage material.

This original version of ‘Behind Blue Eyes’ was recorded at the Record Plant, New York, on March 17-18, 1971, and features Al Kooper on organ.

Deluxe Edition (2003), also available on vinyl.

The first CD contains the nine tracks off the original album and the following bonus tracks from the Record Plant Sessions, New York, March 1971.

While the remixed and remastered CD featured a 5:13 edit with Keith’s barely audible comment, “put away your girlie magazines” at the start, the Deluxe Edition featured a new 8:20 remix of the complete version, with Roger’s barked “a bit of quiet please” command before starting and an outbreak of laughter when the track finally winds down.

An alternative version from the Record Plant sessions, recorded March 18, 1971. Previously unreleased.

This is the same take as on the remixed and remastered CD, except it has been freshly remixed and has a full ending instead of fading at 4:19.

Originally produced by Kit Lambert, this version of ‘Love Ain’t For Keeping’ was recorded on March 17, 1971.  It features a live vocal from Pete, and Leslie West on second guitar. Previously available on the revamped Odds & Sods CD in 1998, the Who’s Next version was recorded with Glyn Johns at Olympic Studios in London two months later.

This is the same track as on the remixed and remastered CD. 

This is an early version of the song from the Record Plant sessions, recorded on March 16, 1971, featuring a different synthesizer pattern than the released version, with the famous lyric “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss”, occurring before the final synthesizer break and drum pattern, and lacking Roger’s memorable scream.
          Pete: “No tape was used. What we did was play an organ through a VCS3 live with the session. So we had to keep in time with the square wave, but the shape was moveable. It was an experiment initiated by Roger and was fairly successful.”

Deluxe Edition Disc 2

Pete had anticipated using live material from a number of small concerts before a specially invited audience to help develop the Lifehouse project. The Young Vic Theatre, a venue close to Waterloo Station with a reputation for the avant garde, was booked each Monday and the Rolling Stones Mobile was hired for what appears to have been the final Lifehouse show on April 26, 1971 (where the tracks on the second disc emanate from).
          Also recorded at this show but left off because of space restrictions were: ‘Baby Don’t You Do It’, ‘Pinball Wizard’, ‘See Me, Feel Me’, and ‘Boney Maronie’ (see 30 Years Of Maximum R&B).
          By all accounts, the Lifehouse experiment was physically and mentally frustrating for Pete, and the tapes were quietly shelved as he failed to bring the concept into a format his fellow band members and audience could understand.

As informal an introduction a Who concert could ever produce, this was the electric version of ‘Love Ain’t For Keeping’ the Who used to open their UK and US concerts over the summer of 1971. Considering that this (and the majority of the Young Vic material) were working versions of what were then unreleased songs, The Who clearly show they were masters of their craft, if somewhat mystified at what Pete was trying to produce. Entwistle and Moon’s interlocking playing is particularly noteworthy.

A very good version with Pete’s guitar solo not quite as developed as the recorded take, but with John’s trebly bass figures well to the fore. The additional verse from Pete’s demo (lopped off for the recorded version) is still intact. The transition to “There once was a note, Listen!” is well handled in the latter part of the performance with more fine Townshend soloing.

The band begin aggressively enough, if not with quite the flair as at Live At Leeds, but Pete’s guitar goes dead at 1:40 (one can only imagine the stage demonstration in anger management that Pete is not exercising!). While his guitar gets seen to, Entwistle and Moon carry on a breathless display of interplaying for 30 seconds without the slightest need for a lead guitarist or vocalist. Pete kicks back in and vents his frustration in a great guitar run until he peels off into a very beautiful blues orientated solo. 

This version highlights the great mix on the Deluxe Edition’s second disc, best heard in the contrast between Pete’s and Roger’s vocals. ‘Time Is Passing’ was first widely heard on Townshend’s solo album Who Came First, which was released in September 1972. Originally recorded during the Olympic Who’s Next sessions, a remastered Who studio version from a damaged master tape was released on the upgraded edition of Odds & Sods in 1998. 

Introduced as “probably a single”, this live version is unusual in that Keith is still seated behind his drums during the opening verses (playing cymbal flourishes) when traditionally he was banished from the stage. He comes in on the beat with impeccable timing.

Pete first rebukes a fan that dared to stand up and ‘idiot dance’ during the previous song. Pete explains that he normally wouldn’t care, but it is distracting as The Who are playing “a whole new show”. An excellent version as is to be expected for a song The Who had played live for the past year.

Pete introduces the song by smoking a cigar to celebrate the recent birth of his second daughter, Aminta. When a heckler pipes up, Pete retorts with “because I’ve had more fucks than you’ve had mate… Many more… When you catch up, come round”. Although Roger starts off in a key that is comfortable for his range, as the song progresses, he strains to hit the high notes. A good attempt, nevertheless and fascinating to see what worked well on stage for the band while developing what came to be known as Who’s Next.

This sounds faster than the album version, and lasts for over six and a half minutes. John’s bass line doesn’t sound fully developed yet, and at 4:10, the bass and guitar cut out as Roger, John and Pete repeatedly sing the pay-off line “Getting in tune to the straight and narrow”.

Pete apologises that the new songs are “sounding a wee bit lame, but they’ll come together”. This version is played a little slower – the tempo throws Moon into some confusion - but is noteworthy primarily for the lack of synthesizer that dominates the album version. The song was refined and went on to be one of the exhilarating highlights of the Who’s 1971/72 shows (check out the live version on Who’s Missing and 30 Years Of Maximum R&B) for confirmation, so why it wasn’t retained in the act remains a mystery.

In a live context, The Who often dragged this slight song out to an inordinate length – no exception here at 8:19 (this Young Vic version first appeared in edited form on 30 Years Of Maximum R&B and the remastered Who’s Next [1995]). While it’s debatable whether it merited such an approach, it was a cornerstone of Who shows throughout 1970/71. A studio version eventually appeared on the B-side of ‘5.15’ in October 1973.

“Not trying to cause a b-b-bloody big sensation,” as Rogers sings. This is a straightforward treatment of the classic and is terminated by Pete sliding his pick up the strings to herald…

(Ellas McDaniel)
Originally written and recorded by blues master Bo Diddley (a.k.a. Ellas McDaniel) in 1959, a song subsequently covered by many artists during the British R&B boom of the early to mid-Sixties, among them The Rolling Stones, The Animals, The Pretty Things, The Zombies and The Who. (In fact, it was this very song that the group played during Keith Moon’s drum-damaging audition at the Oldfield Hotel, Greenford, in April 1964.) During tours in the Seventies The Who often lurched into this medium paced rocker during lengthy jams within the ‘My Generation’ framework.
          Pete: “It was an afterthought to play this, probably not a good idea.  It was a chaotic evening and I think that during this song some young boys started to fiddle around with some older women who were present, one of whom was Roger’s ex, Cleo. We lost concentration as there were no bouncers.”
          At the end if segues into the riff from…

Sharp-eared Who aficionados can pinpoint that this song (and certainly the middle break) had its genesis in parts of Pete’s guitar work played during the ‘My Generation’ finale of The Who’s set at Woodstock.
          A long-standing concert favourite, this version is slightly marred by Roger forgetting the lyrics during the final verse. A studio version was recorded at Eel Pie Sound in 1970 (completed at Olympic on June 7, 1971) and released in 1974 on Odds & Sods.

The Who’s second epic single (after ‘I Can See For Miles’) was pretty well worked out at this stage (possibly because it had already been recorded). There are some interesting guitar runs played over the synthesizer, with Roger’s definitive rock and roll scream at the conclusion, but the recorded version has a little extra drive and aggression.